At the End
by la-rubinita
Summary: In which Cas tries, one more time, to pick up the pieces of Dean.  End!verse, R for light language and boys kissing.


Written for spn_30snapshots on LJ, grid 15, square 10. End!verse, angsty, and beta'd by the frickin' fantabulous alchemynerd, who makes all of my crap readable. Love her.

15.10 At the End

Death, in this forsaken place, could come in countless forms, but none were so insidious, so subversive, as the death of hope. I knew that sort of death first-hand. My own had nearly ripped me to shreds, leaving me hollow and apathetic and I shamefully filled that void with wanton fornication and copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, but watching Dean's hope shrivel and die had been far worse. Because I _chose_ this; Dean did not, not really. Sam chose this, even if Dean would rather shoot himself in the head than blame his brother for anything, because Dean will always, always believe that there is something he could have done to divert this course.

His past-self showing up has thrown him, really set him off-kilter, though I'm probably the only one that's noticed. No one else in the camp, besides Chuck maybe, knows Dean as anything other than the legend that precedes him and their Fearless Leader. And he is fearless now, even if he sneers at the title. He believes he has nothing left to lose, and those are the most dangerous sorts of men.

Past Dean just makes me want to weep. He still has time, wiggle-room in the grand scheme of things; he's still so full of hope and selfless nobility. I miss that Dean, and I didn't even realize how much until he turned up in my tent two days ago looking like he'd been kicked in the gut. I wonder if Dean misses that version of himself as much as I do.

In the morning we were going to kill the Devil. I went to Dean. My hands were shaking, and I stuffed them in my pockets; I hadn't had anything for hours, all day almost, but there was enough shit in my system to keep off the withdrawal until dawn. If it was going to be the last conversation I was ever going to have with Dean, I fully intended to be (mostly) sober for it. It was _important_.

I found him at the Impala, sitting quietly in the driver's seat. The Colt was resting on the dash, glinting coolly in the moonlight. I didn't knock, or ask if I might join him; he'd have only said no. The rusted door squealed when I dragged it open, and old leather creaked and frayed as I sat. Dean wouldn't look at me.

I'm not sure how long we sat, but it was long enough that the lights from the camp dwindled to but a thin spatter, and the only movement was from the sentries guarding the perimeter.

"Are you going to tell them?" I said at last. It wasn't what I'd planned on opening with, but my tongue and my brain seemed to have momentarily disconnected.

Dean furrowed his brow, but still wouldn't meet my gaze. "Tell who what?"

"Don't fucking bullshit me, Dean," I snapped. "You and I both know that even if you do manage to get a shot off, there's no guarantee it will kill Lucifer_._"

Dean finally looked at me, his gaze cold, empty. He said nothing, and I wanted to punch him in the face.

"It's a suicide mission."

Dean looked back out the windshield.

"But that's what you want, isn't it? You've given up, and you figure we're better off dying fighting than screaming. You figure this way none of us will have to know that you're planning to walk up to the Devil who's wearing Sam's face and let him kill you."

"Don't you dare say his name," Dean snarled. "Don't you _fucking_ dare."

"Or what? You won't be my friend anymore?"

For a blink-and-you'd-miss-it instant, Dean looked stricken, a crack in the armour. "I think we're a little past that, don't you? It's been a long time since we were friends."

"I'm not sure we were ever _friends_. Comrades, lovers," God I hated how the word stuck in my throat, "but never friends. Not really."

I couldn't even feel smug watching Dean clench and unclench his fists around the steering wheel, because I'd finally, after more than two years, mentioned the elephant sitting in the backseat. Dean got out of the Impala, slamming the door angrily behind him. I hastened to follow, running to catch him before he could escape. I grabbed his arm and spun him around. He obliged, but smacked my hand away, like my touch was abhorrent. It stung; there used to be a time when he'd begged me to touch him.

"What do you want, Cas?" Dean said, his voice tight. "You wanna have a nice little heart-to-heart? Talk about our feelings, maybe cry a little? Would that make you feel better? Or did you just run out of pills and figured you'd find some other way to entertain yourself?"

"Don't you dare judge me for how I dealt with" – I gestured broadly with my arms – "_this_. Not when you abandoned me to figure it all out on my own."

"Hate to break it to you, drama queen, but you're not the only one the Apocalypse happened to. At least your brother didn't agree to make himself the Devil's meatsuit because you—"

"Abandoned him? It seems to be a theme with you, doesn't it?"

"Fuck you."

"And I don't know if it ever occurred to you, but my brother is _wearing_ your brother. Sam may have said yes, but Lucifer's been the busy one, so don't act like you're the only one who knows what it's like to let family down."

"Dammit, Cas, don't say his name. Please."

"Sam."

"Shut up," Dean growled.

"_Sam_."

Dean punched me in the face, a solid right hook to the jaw. My teeth rattled, slicing my tongue, and I saw stars, but I managed to keep my feet. Then I punched him back, an upper-cut to the chin. Dean stumbled backward, surprised that I'd struck him back. It'd been a while.

"Just like old times, huh?" I grinned and spat a wad of blood on the ground. "I didn't think I could get that reaction out of you anymore. It's nice to know you're still in there, somewhere."

"You know, I was really hoping my last night on Earth would be somewhat more peaceful. So why don't you piss off?"

"Thank you."

Dean glared, massaging his chin.

"For you candor," I explained. "At least you didn't lie to my face about tomorrow."

Dean paled, realizing what he'd said. He swallowed hard. "Are you going to tell them?"

"No. What's the point? You're probably the only one who could have stopped Lucifer, so with you gone, the rest of them don't stand much of a chance. At least this death will be quick."

"Them?" Dean asked after a moment.

"I know you'd go anyway, and I'd go with you."

"_Why?_" Dean croaked after a beat.

I just stared, because for a moment Fearless Leader Dean was gone, the mask disappeared and all that was left was that scared, scarred, grief-ridden man that had crawled into bed with me all those years ago. I'd wanted him back, I know, but it was still a crushing moment to realize that he'd been right there waiting for me, for this moment, this confrontation, all this time. How much time I'd wasted – it was like a kick in the gut.

Suddenly angry, Dean grabbed me by my shirt and slammed me into the Impala.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why would you do that? I was going to let you die. How can you still—?"

"Because that death will be merciful compared to the other options. You are still a Righteous Man."

Dean wailed, honest to God wailed, and I prayed I'd never have to hear that awful sound again, before slamming me into the unyielding metal of his car again. "Don't fucking say that! _I ended the world._"

"Fuck the world, Dean. I didn't choose the world. I didn't _fall_ for the world. I did it for _you_."

"No-"

"Because I trusted you, and if you think it's time to throw in the towel—"

"Shut _up_." He shoved me again, harder this time, and my head cracked against the car.

I shoved him back, just to let him know I could. That I wasn't some defenseless damsel or some drugged-up pushover.

"No. _Listen_." Almost unwillingly, Dean met my eyes. "I am Castiel," I said, pounding my fist against my chest. "Once I was the Angel of the Fourth Day, a Warrior of God, and five years ago I _chose _to follow you, Dean Winchester. If you say this is the end, this is the end."

"How can you say that? After everything I've done, how can you still-? How can you be willing to follow me to your death?"

I took a deep breath. I remember it. I'd meant it to be calming, fortifying, but it wasn't, not remotely. Mostly because it had just dawned on me that I was still in love with Dean. I was wildly, shamelessly in love with a man who had done everything in his power to make me hate him. A man who hated himself, more than anything else, and maybe hated me a little just for loving him, even if I'd never had the balls to say it.

"Because I don't want to know a world in which you do not exist." Another breath. "I've followed you this far. I may as well see it through."

I thought he was going to punch me again; I really did, so the kiss he crashed onto my lips had a similar effect, jarring and almost painful, sending my blood rushing with a burst of adrenaline. It was hard and desperate, yet sad somehow, too, which pretty much summed us right up.

I didn't hesitate, not for a second. We had wasted so much time already – God, _so much time_ – and now there wasn't any left. All my thousands of years whittled down to a handful of hours, and I couldn't think of a single thing I'd rather be doing. I kissed him back, all teeth and tongue and the coppery tang of blood, and it was like coming home.

Calloused fingers dug into my hair, the sharp tug against my scalp making me gasp. Dean swallowed the sound with greedy lips, and I grabbed his hips, dragging his body flush to mine.

"Shit, Cas," Dean said, his voice raw and ragged, dropping his head on my shoulder.

I concurred, whole heartedly. I hadn't expected this, hadn't expected my body to remember every little detail, but it was a sly, traitorous thing. It wanted Dean; I wanted Dean. But more than anything I wanted to make the pain go away, just for a little while. For years Dean had been alone, despite the constant crowd of people surrounding him, and I wanted him to know that if he was going out for one last hurrah, that it was one thing he wouldn't be doing alone. I'd walked away once; I wasn't about to do it again. Not here, at the end of all things.

"Shh," I said, brushing soft kisses over his face, memorizing its contours with my lips.

"Please," he whispered brokenly, "I can't – you have to—" He took a deep breath. "If we do this, it will break me."

"No," I said, "you're already broken. Let me hold you together for a little while."

A desperate, half-stifled sob escaped Dean's lips before I kissed him again, but this time he didn't try to push me away. Maybe it was because he was tired of being the strong one, or maybe I was tired of failing him, but if I could give him this one last thing, then I would give it, and he was going to let me.


End file.
